I still can’t believe it.
That a woman’s body was created to absorb a seed and manifest a life.
I can’t believe that a woman’s character can absorb the hardships of playing mommy and caretaker, and still at the end of a long day, after the messes shipwreck us onto the shores of lack of control, after kissing beads of sweat on dreamy foreheads, we have space in our hearts to do it again the next day, and the next day. And we have the audacity to pause at the chaos and be filled with thankfulness from time to time. Be overwhelmed in that. Be lost in thanksgiving. Whenever you can and wherever life finds you.
I’m still in shock that little people who have to be taught everything from adults and the world around them are always beckoning elementary teachings to the adults and the whole world. New things are unearthed from these underdeveloped childlike craniums. And we see through a new lens when humility forces us to our knees to see these tiny lessons called children.
With every baby that I’ve carried to full term, it’s like God is putting a pause on myself to teach me it’s never been about me. With every back ache and stretch mark, increments of knowledge are deposited to my broken being, and I learn it’s not about me.
With every kick and inability to sleep the way my size-two body used to, I’m forced to coo prayers out into the silence around me, I’m forced to stretch hands over womb and pray for this life and other lives around me.
And after it all, after being 22 and having had four lives developing in me and come to life through me, in this hour of desperation to learn more of my great God, I want it back. The life in my womb. I want it to teach me a patience and closeness with God.
Strange, yes I know, but I want it back, the longing to feel hard labor knocking at the walls of my uterus.
Why? Why do women bear children and never learn. I suppose Jean-Pierre de Caussade was right when he said, “If we wish to quench our thirst, we must lay aside books which explain thirst and take a drink.”
We’re all grasping to learn but not sitting with the teacher. We choose to sit with students. Watch sermon after sermon, read book after book. Venture to human vessel after human vessel. But only one mode can bring us to the source itself. We can. We can go to God. We can spread ourselves like a heavy quilt, Gods ‘poema’ on the bed of the Holy Spirit.
I want to lose my mind in a sacrificial love. I want to be molded by the fetuses’ heartbeats causing me to pause. That brings me to God. When I have to stop drinking coffee and alcohol. When I have to take care of myself for the one inside of me. And it reminds me, I should always take care of myself. In this way, after all, isn’t the Spirit said to have been in us as a fertilized child is? Alive and purposed?
I just feel all of this commotion, but we don’t really grow. We become YouTube scholars and Instagram prophets. We become seen and pseudo-known. We avoid pain as if it’s some way to rectify that God is good but often God wants to speak to us through the pain, through the denial of self. Through the stretch marks. Through the bloody labor.
And he’s looking for the ones not just hungry for him or his goodness but also hungry for the lesson that comes with him.
His faithful few.
The doers of Hebrews 12:1.
The mimickers of that man from Tarsus who was changed by the light.
The laying down of dust-dancing lifers.
The ones who aren’t just hungry to eat but hungry to labor in the kitchen. To entertain the lost dinner guest.
The ones that don’t just want to be fixed but want to be transformed.
He’s looking for the faithful few and dethroning the well-known relics.
It’s time for rebirth, but more importantly, labor.
To God be the glory.